


Setting Fire to Our Insides for Fun

by Lafyel



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Memory Loss, mild dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafyel/pseuds/Lafyel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tries to place the sensation, tries to call up the memory that tells him what it is. It’s like grasping smoke, like trying to hold onto sand slipping through his fingers. The lack of memory coupled with the faint sensation of almost knowing has his skin itching with irritation all over again. Thomas doesn't realize he’s made a sound, frustrated, as he squirms on the grass, smooshing the blades beneath him.</p><p>“Thomas.” Minho’s voice is sharp and flat and it causes the brunet to freeze, stomach twisting in knots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Setting Fire to Our Insides for Fun

**Author's Note:**

> Hello new fandom, here is my contribution.
> 
> This is written during the first book (or movie) to give a general time frame. There's no spoilers unless them sleeping on a grassy patch in the book and not a hammock is a spoiler?
> 
> Also I'll make more of these as I go through the series but each will be able to be read as a stand alone fic
> 
> Please leave feed back so I can grow as a writer, and also on any errors you see, this has not been beta'd

_-_

 

Thomas knows in the back of his mind that the temperature never changes, that it’s consistent in the glade. He knows that it never rains, knows that it never gets _that_ hot during the day or that cold at night. Yet, despite knowing this, he can’t help but think that it’s hotter than usual, can’t help the almost sticky sensation on his skin. He shifts and squirms in the dark, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in.

Except he can’t.

It’s just too warm and the ground is too hard and he feels irritated for some reason. He shifts again, twists in the sleeping bag that’s been given to him, ends up lying on his back and staring up at the cloudless sky. The stars twinkle above him, mocking in a way that just pushes his irritation higher, that has his brows furrowing.

He huffs and shifts _again_ , kicking his legs out from the sleeping bag.

There’s an irritated sigh to his right, followed by, “Can you just lie still for more than a minute you klunk?” It’s Minho, and he’s tired sounding, exhaustion creeping into his voice. Thomas turns his head to look at the other, can make out his form in the dark, can see that he’s on his side and has his back facing him.

“Sorry, I’m just…” The brunet’s voice trails off, brow furring. He can’t explain why he’s irritated, can’t explain why it’s too hot and why he feels this odd pressure in his gut. “…uncomfortable?” It comes out as a question and for some reason that irritates him more. He makes a sound and shifts again, which in turn has Minho rolling onto his back.

There’s a short distance between them, the same amount of space between everyone on the soft patch of grass, and yet Thomas suddenly feels like the older teen is closer, much closer. This sensation does nothing for the heat he’s feeling, for the irritation and the tightness in his gut.

“Seriously, lie still.” The words come out harsh and with an edge to the Keeper’s voice, causes the other’s skin to prickle. “For ten minutes.” It’s not a question, isn’t quite a demand though. Thomas just nods in the dark, inhales deeply, mild confusion flooding though him. He doesn’t understand the heat and the irritation, the discomfort.

The tight pressure in his gut.

He tries to place the sensation, tries to call up the memory that tells him what it is. It’s like grasping smoke, like trying to hold onto sand slipping through his fingers. The lack of memory coupled with the faint sensation of _almost_ knowing has his skin itching with irritation all over again. Thomas doesn’t realize he’s made a sound, frustrated, as he squirms on the grass, smooshing the blades beneath him.

“Thomas.” Minho’s voice is sharp and flat and it causes the brunet to freeze, stomach twisting in knots.

He feels like a kid caught stealing cookies.

For a brief moment he manages to lie entirely still, has his muscles locked, body tight, as if anticipating a fight. Minho doesn’t attack him, won’t; he’s the Runner’s friend, and despite his irritation he’s sympathetic, can understand.

“Just go to sleep.”

“I’m _trying!_ ” Thomas wants to deny how his voice comes out, how desperate he sounds, how his frustration creeps into the second word. There’s panic starting to bubble up in his chest, creep into his limps and he shifts again, squirms and pushes the sleeping bag farther to the side.

Minho rolls over to actually look at the other, expression unamused.

Thomas can feel the eyes on him, feels his gut twist and do this flipping thing that has him starting to panic, has his hands starting to shake. He doesn’t say anything, just stares up at the empty sky, tries to focus on the faint sounds of the maze shifting - tries to focus on anything and everything that he can.

Because he can feel Minho watching him, studying, thinking.

“Why don’t you just go deal with it?” The sentence is quite, soft and there’s a hint of empathy bleeding into it.

Silence fills the air and Thomas slowly turns to look at the other. “Deal with… what?” He’s confused, head spinning from the odd heat, from the tightness in his gut, the odd nervousness starting to set in.

He feels like he knows what the Keeper is talking about, except he just can’t grasp the thought.

Minho just stares at him, incredulous, like Thomas has grown a second head. He opens his mouth to say something, yet nothing comes out. Instead he rolls onto his back, reaches up and presses his palms to his eyes.

“…Thomas…” He starts, yet nothing else comes out, for a long moment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Runner feels like he has to clarify this, has this itching sensation that he’s missing something important.

Even Minho looks uncomfortable now.

“Are you…” The words trail off because they look at each other and it’s obvious that Thomas isn’t understanding, that he isn’t getting it. “Oh my god…” Minho says this, words whispered to himself.

The quiet tone sends a chill down the brunets back and he squirms, rolls onto his side away from the other. He feels oddly vulnerable, open, hates that Minho can read him so well. He hates that the Keeper seems to know what’s wrong with him and yet he doesn’t.

What he hates most is that it’s gone so quiet now that he can hear the older teen breathing, can pick it out amongst the others. Thomas feels like Minho can hear his heart beating.

And it’s beating way too fast and he doesn’t know _why._

”Tommy…” Minho’s voice is softer than usual, quiet and the nickname is…

Thomas thinks it’s meant to calm him down, yet it does anything but. It makes him nervous, makes him feel weird and like there’s something wrong with him.

“…what…?” His voice is just shy of cracking and it makes him twist and squirm, makes him feel like he’s younger than Chuck and being chided.

“You gotta just…” Minho is looking away now, inhales deeply.

“Just what?” Thomas is getting desperate, wants to just be told what’s going on, wants to sleep like everyone else.

“You feel hot right now, right…?” Minho takes a different approach, can’t bring himself to say it right away.

There’s a small pause, one in which Thomas wishes there’d be a light breeze that night, wishes that the air didn’t feel so thick and heavy. He shifts again, uncomfortable, over heated, moves to lie on his back, almost gasps when his shirt inches up and he can feel the earth beneath him.

“…yeah…” He says, voice cracking this time.

“And you feel… different? Down…” Minho has to close his eyes, has to force himself to not freak out, not punch Thomas and find somewhere else to sleep. “…there?”

The Runner freezes at this, mind spinning. He doesn’t quite understand. He does feel different, in his gut, can feel heat pooling there.

Thomas runs his hand over his stomach, fingers brushing against skin where his shirt has ridden up. He can feel his muscles twitch, can feel his face starting to burn. A peculiar sensation washes over him, calming almost.

“…yeah… I-do…” The words slip out, light and airy almost, a hint of something else seeping in.

Minho squirms now.

“Why…?” Thomas asks, running his fingers over his skin again, blunt nails scrapping lightly.

The older teen fights every single nerve of his body to not look over at his friend, to not _look_ and see what he’s doing, what’s causing that airy note to his voice. He closes his eyes, swallows down the growing lump in his throat. Minho was never good with self-control, was never one to hold back, and now was not the best time for him to start trying.

He turns his head and looks slowly over at Thomas.

“…lower.”

“What?”

“Move your hand lower.” Minho is almost whispering, a sudden fear that one of the other gladers might wake up.

Thomas blinks, hand stilling. He can feel the eyes on him, doesn’t understand. “Lower?” He repeats, head turning to look at his friend.

“Y-Yeah… just…” The Keeper makes a sound of frustration, rolls onto his stomach and places the side of his face against the grass obscuring his vision. He’s watching, still, through one eye now because he can’t help but not to. “Move your hand lower…” He really hopes that Thomas remembers, that it comes back to him.

Because it’s starting make Minho’s body heat up.

Thomas hesitates, doesn’t get why placing his hand on his pelvis will help, but does so, because it’s Minho, because it’s his friend, because the Keeper is always right. He feels it then, the heat between his legs, the slight stiffness, and it confuses him. The brunet pushes his brows together, confused at the excited twist in his gut, at the want for something flooding his veins.

He pushes down against the stiffness with the heel of his palm.

“…why…?” His voice hitches at the pressure, at the sensation.

Thomas turns to look at Minho, lips parted, presses again. His body responds in part, hips stuttering up, lights starting to spark behind his eyes.

The Keeper has never seen something so…

He has to swallow his words back down before he can speak, has to collect his thoughts. He knows that this is going too far, that there is an unspoken rule in the glade about helping anyone out, that this is seriously going to make things harder.

Minho want’s to slap himself for this, wants to punch himself in the face for letting this happen. He’s supposed to be looking after Thomas, helping him, not taking advantage of his lack of memory.

“It’ll make you feel better.” He says, soft.

Thomas presses again, head starting to spin. He almost understands, feels like he knows where this is going. Except he’s holding onto a cloud, the knowledge just out of reach, thoughts seeping through his fingertips. “Does this happen to you?” The words rush out before he can stop them, breathy and desperate.

Minho sucks in a quick breath, throat tightening. His instinct is to say no, because everyone says no, everyone pretends they don’t get aroused by stupid things. His mind is sluggish and he isn’t quick to reply. Thomas freezes, a mild panic washing over him, worrying.

“I-I’m not weird right?”

“No.” The older teen shifts, lies on his back again and rubs his eyes. “I…” He’s embarrassed now, nervous and chest tight. “Just touch it.”

Thomas doesn’t move, hand still lying against the obvious tent in his pants. “What’s that going to accomplish?” He’s half hissing, panic starting to swell in his chest. “I press and it gets worse!”

Minho groans lightly, growing frustrated himself, both with Thomas’ lack of knowledge and how his body is responding.

“Minho!” Thomas snaps, and it’s just loud enough, just desperate enough to cause the older teen to cave, to suddenly sit up and move closer. He’s invading the brunet’s space, is lying down beside him so close that he can feel the heat coming off him.

“Just touch it you shank!” The Keeper snaps back in a hiss, lying down on his side. His voice is quieter now, nervousness settling in. He’s way too scared about being seen.

Thomas smells gross and way too good all at the same time, it muddles his thoughts, takes him a second to focus back in.

“Why do I have to touch it?” The brunet is hissing back, cheeks tinged red from embarrassment and arousal. “How’ll that help?” He’s desperate to understand, to pull away, to get up and hide in the deadheads. His body feels like lead though, a heaviness hanging between his legs.

“It’ll make you feel better – amazing really.” Minho is thinking, debating on something. He doesn’t want to do anything, doesn’t want to be seen, doesn’t want to be heard, doesn’t want to have to physically touch the Runner.

Except…

He really kind of wants to, regardless of whether Thomas understands fully or not.

The thought makes his stomach twist and flip, makes him way to aware of how the brunet looks, over heated and desperate, bangs sticking to his forehead. Minho forces the thoughts away, places his hand on Thomas’ shoulder and pushes him, tries to roll him onto his side. He doesn’t want to see the brunet do it, the sight might be too much for him.

“What’re you doing?!” The words are high pitched, desperate, a hair too loud for the others liking.

“Shuck it you klunk!” Minho snaps, actually snaps, brow’s pushing together in irritation. “Just listen to me and touch it. Otherwise you have to sit like this for the rest of the night!”

“What? You’re the klunk!” Thomas is actually starting to shake, is panicking, brown eyes wide and it’s really getting to the Keeper. “Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?” He does his best to not be pushed, rolled onto his side, maintains dead weight. The hand on his bicep is stupidly hot, makes his gut tighten and a pleasant chill run up his back.

Minho makes a sound in his throat, eyes irritated and glaring holes into the brunet’s head. He stops trying and lets the other drop back down. “You’re aroused.” He says it finally, the words slipping out.

Thomas sucks in a breath at that, eyes drifting to stare up at the sky.

A second passes, then two.

“Okay.” Is all the Runner says, slow and quiet and Minho realizes that nothing has changed. Thomas knows what’s going on but still doesn’t _get it_. He wants to hit his head against something, this was not something he had ever imagined happening.

“What… do…?”

“I _already_ told you.” The words are gritted out and Minho is hanging on by a thread. “You touch it.”

And to his shock Thomas is complying, hand pressing down, cupping. It feels like little electric currents are running up and down his spine, has his body tingling and his stomach twisting. “… _okay_ …” The word is breathless and airy and Minho likes the sound of it way too much.

“What else…?” Thomas is squeezing, pressing, half rubbing himself through his pants and it’s a sight to see. He turns his head, looks at the Keeper, whose eyes are on him, on his hand.

“You…” Minho is at a loss for what to do. He knows what he _should_ do, knows what would be the better option. Yet he can’t bring himself to say it, to tell Thomas to stroke himself, and then get up and leave. Leaving the area would be best. Leaving would mean things would hopefully go back to normal, would mean that he didn’t really break any rules.

He doesn’t move.

“…stroke… it…”

Thomas freezes, eyes searching the others face, for more guidance, for anything. He’s throbbing, aching in a way he didn’t know was possible. “…I… what?” He asks, dizzy and chest tight, head spinning as the older teen leans in closer, too close. He’s way too aware of the added body heat, of the Keepers proximity, the eyes on him.

He throbs and a quiet sound slips past his throat.

“Undo you’re…” Minho pauses, eyes darting from Thomas’ face to his crotch and back. “You gotta undo your pants…” Hushed whispers are followed by silence.

Thomas complies, slow, way too slow and it’s verging on teasing. He still doesn’t understand fully, is still confused as to why he’s ‘aroused’ as to why Minho is so close and hasn’t left yet. The thought sends a pleased hum through his veins, emboldens him to undo his belt, to push his pants down around mid-thigh.

It’s like the world falls away from them, becomes silent and still.

Minho hates how the sight of Thomas has his body starting to ache, how full and hard the younger teen is. He understands why the other couldn’t sleep, feels sympathetic. The brunet isn’t just half aroused, isn’t sporting a mild chubby. He wants to say something, anything because it’s getting weirdly quiet again.

The brunet’s hand is back on himself again, pressing against the shaft.

And it is a beautiful sight that sends a rush though Minho.

“No you… um…” He makes a hand gesture, a jerking motion because he can’t think of how to explain it. He can’t think of how to do a lot of things right now. His mind is sluggish and has damn near stopped working.

Thomas nods, lips parted and dry feeling. He licks them and Minho _really_ wonders what they would feel like pressed against his own.

Fingers curl around himself, and he gives a halfhearted tug.

The Runner still doesn’t get it.

What he does get is the sensation that runs up his spine, the tightening of heat pooling in his groin.

“Yeah…” The Keeper pushes himself up, is propped up on his elbow and glancing around them. Everyone else is still asleep, dead to the world. He turns his eyes back onto Thomas, nods, “…keep doing that…” He’s practically leaning over him, can’t get any closer without being atop him.

The brunet repeats the movement, hand sliding lightly over his hardened dick, fingers curled loosely. His eyes are fixed on the teen above him, large and glossy. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, wetting it absentmindedly. The stroking feels good but it’s not enough, he needs more, needs…

“I…” Thomas says, words shaky, like it’s taking everything in him to focus on what he wants to say. “Aroused means… I think…” His brows knit together in frustration and he closes his eyes. He can’t think straight. “What happens…after?” He doesn’t know if he makes sense, hopes that Minho understands. Thomas remembers this sensation before, the stroking, the heat pooling in his lower belly. What he doesn’t remember is the sensations ever being this strong, this forceful, needed.

He inhales sharply, eyes cracking open to see the older teen above him.

“Yeah…” Minho’s words are airy, breathless, and it takes him a second to realize he’s been asked something. “After…?” He feels flushed, over heated and sluggish. “What do you mean?” His eyes trail back down, to Thomas’ hand, watches it rise and fall, watches the skin slide beneath fingers.

“I don’t think I’m doing it right.” The brunet bites his lower lip, embarrassed, thoughts scattered. He knows he’s still missing something.

“You’re doing fine…” Minho is in a daze, is starting to wonder what Thomas would actually feel like. The thought sends an ache through him, makes his chest flutter and stomach twist. He looks back up, at stupidly glossy brown eyes, dark hair just slightly damp.

A sound slips out and it’s a desperate whine, pleading, is just enough to push the Keeper closer to caving.

The older teen leans back, moves to lie on his back, thinking, or at least trying to.

“Minho… Is there…?” Thomas is still slow in his movements, hips pushing up into his hand just so. “What else do I…?” He makes another sound, frustrated.

He really just wants to _know_ where this was going, what the stroking would do.

“What else?” Minho repeats.

Thomas nods, fervent, bites his lower lip, hums as his fingers slip over his tip. “What’s going to happen?” It comes out as a gasp, airy and sounding oh so good to the other.

“You’re going to cum…” The words tumble out before the Keeper can stop it, face heating up. He feels embarrassed from it, more so then from lying next to his friend touching himself.

“Cum?”

And Thomas is looking at Minho, in the eyes, dazed and flushed.

The older teen caves, restraint cracking.

He shifts, slides his arm under the brunet’s head, resting it on his bicep, leans back over him. “Tommy…” He says, soft, fingers ghosting over skin.

“Minho-what’re you?!” It comes out panicked, brown eyes widening. He opens his mouth, to say something else, but it comes out muffled, the Keepers left hand coving it.

“K-Keep quiet.” The words are spoken against his temple, hot and humid.

The hand is removed and Thomas is about to retaliate, to snap back when he feels it, the solid grip on his cock. It’s enough to make him lose all thoughts, words slipping out of his mind. He hadn’t realized he stopped moving, hadn’t realized his hand has been nudged away.

Minho can feel his friend throb against his fingers, is quietly fascinated with the sensation.

He gives an experimental stroke, grip light and just enough to be discernably there. Thomas twitches below him, hips jumping up and eyes falling shut. The sight is amazing and the older teen wants more, to see his friend just come undone.

Another stroke and another twitch.

It feels to dry, way to dry. He brushes his fingers along the others neck, teasing in a way he never would have imagined before, thinking.

“This feels good right?” A whispered question.

Thomas nods, lips starting to tremble almost, hands grabbing at the grass below them. His hips push up, stuttering at the thumb pressed against the tip. Sparks are flying behind his eyes and he gasps, nails digging into dirt.

“It can feel better…” Minho really, really, _really,_ hopes no one wakes up right now. He knows what it looks like, knows that he’d earn a week or more in the slammer for this.

He slows his movements, the stroking, gives a soft squeeze and takes his hand away.

Thomas is close to panting now, face flushed and hair a mess. His eyes are wide and dazed and he looks damn near drugged.

Minho licks his hand, spits into his palm and reaches back down.

The added wetness, the slick sensation has the brunet gasping, has him squirming. His head tilts back, still propped on the others bicep, stares off at the darkened sky in a daze. He can’t think straight, can’t think about anything other than the tingling sensation running through him, than Minho as he tugs him closer, protective and-

“S’good…” Thomas tries to smile, reaches up with his right hand to tug at his friends shirt. Minho is watching him, eyes dark. He’s enjoying the scene way too much, the stupidly large brown eyes watching him, the heat between his fingers.

He flicks his thumb over the slit at the top, is amused as Thomas twitches, hips rolling up. “That feel good?” Minho asks, leaning down so that their foreheads touched.

Thomas nods, excitedly, bites at his lower lip again, a whine slipping out. “Wh-what else do you-ngh-know?” He’s panting, fingers curled in the Keepers shirt. Minho isn’t sure if it’s a challenge or just genuine curiosity.

He likes the idea of both.

“I know…” He trails off, thumbs at the head of his friends dick, liking the smooth skin there. “…enough to make this short.” It’s not meant to antagonize the other, isn’t meant in a harsh way.

Thomas is almost pouting, almost because he doesn’t understand why that thought makes him sad. Why finishing this and going to sleep would be bad. They both need sleep and it is way too late. They need to be up at dawn, need to be out in the maze bright and early and

“Short?” He asks, breathless, vaguely aware that Minho is closer now than before. It’s almost like he can taste the other on his tongue when he speaks.

The brunet likes the sensation.

Minho slows his hand down, eyes searching the other, is trying to make sense of this. It’s like Thomas understands except he doesn’t, is curious as to why he doesn’t want it to end already. “Thought you wanted to sleep, shank.” He teases, twisting his hand just a bit when he strokes.

“Y-yeah…” Thomas hums, eyes fluttering shut, “E-eventually.” His face feels hot, hotter than before, hotter than he’s ever felt it. He tries to hide it, to hide against the others chest.

Minho is surprised, shocked really, because he thinks…

“Tommy…” He strokes up, fingers teasing at the ridge of the others dick. “How close are you?” He asks, whispers in the brunets ear. “You need to cum soon…” He’s not being fair now, knows it.

The Runner squirms against him, in his arms, hips stuttering up into the twisting and tugging sensation. Thomas definitely thinks he can taste Minho on his tongue at this distance. The pressure in his gut is tighter and he gasps, muffled by fabric. He tilts his head back some, neck craning just a bit, runs his nose along the older teen’s neck.

Minho strokes just a bit fast, grip just a hair tighter. His own dick is throbbing, aching and he can feel his heart pounding so loud. He feels like he’s just run the entirety of the maze.

Thomas gasps, lips brushing against skin, and it causes Minho to part his lips, suck in a quick breath.

And then there’s teeth on skin, harsh and biting.

“You shank!” The Keeper is hissing, left hand shooting up and grabbing at damp dark brown hair. He continues to move his right hand, fingers teasing the head with every up stroke. Minho pulls Thomas back, yanks on his hair and forces him to lie flat on his back.

“I’m sorry-I’m sorry!” The Runner is squirming, panting and grabbing at the others shirt again. “s’just wanted to-“ He moans, loud, the loudest sound so far.

Minho panics, leans forward and presses their lips together, continues to stroke as he swallows up the sounds. He’s screwed and he knows it. He wasn’t supposed to help another glader like this, wasn’t supposed to do any of this.

And now he’s kissing, hand on their dick.

And there’s tongue.

Lots of it.

Thomas is still whining, hips twitching and hands grabbing. He’s begging for something he doesn’t understand and Minho really just wants to pick the other up and go somewhere _else_. They kiss for a good minute, his fingers curled, slicked now by what he suspects is pre cum. The older teen pulls back, panting, eyes staring into Thomas’ stupidly large brown ones. He likes the flush on his friend’s face, wonders about all the expressions he could make.

Minho leans back in, lips pressing against lips, and it’s much softer now, chaste almost.

Until he licks, teasing, along the brunet’s lower lip.

Thomas complies, lips parting, muffled sounds slipping past. The Runner tastes amazing, like warmth and spices and it makes Minho want, a bubbling ache in his chest. He moves his hand, twisting and teasing, focuses his grip on the head of the others cock. He wants him to cum, really wants to see what he looks like blissed out and tingling.

Minho knows that the sight is going to burned into his mind forever, has a lingering sensation that he’ll never see something so completely-

Thomas gasps, breaks their kiss, brows knitting together.

He closes his eyes, whines and, “Don’t look away.” Minho is breathless, wants to see the glossy brown eyes, wants to see every little bit. He’s amused, enchanted really, by the twitching going through his friend’s body, by the way he can feel his hips jut up, by the way he can feel the fingers twist in his own shirt. Thomas is stupidly hot and Minho vaguely thinks that if he pushes his own hips down he might just cum from seeing the other.

He doesn’t, has this inkling sensation in the back of his mind that he’s going to feel like shit tomorrow for this.

The brunet makes a choked sound, voice catching in his throat. He pushes up into Minho’s hand, dizzy for a half second before a tingling warmth spreads through – and then there’s nothing but euphoria, nothing but Minho pressed up against his side, eyes dark and cheeks tinged just so. Thomas breaths out the older teens name, releases in his hand. It’s wet and thick and Minho just uses it as lubricant, just strokes through his friend’s orgasm, slow and steady. He continues until the brunet is trembling, hands shooting down to grab at his wrist, eyes glossy.

“S-Stop now, please!”

Minho hums lightly and does so, wipes his hand on the grass. He’s tired and aching now.

“So that…?” Thomas starts, breathless and boneless, head still resting on the older teens arm.

“That is something you don’t talk about here.” Minho is quiet in his words, nudges the other to move. It takes the brunet a second before doing so, only to flop back onto the grass.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a rule, it makes things awkward.” It’s said with a shrug as the Keep sits up, eyes darting around the grass at the sleeping forms around them.

“Yeah but-“

“Don’t talk about it.”

Thomas’ head is buzzing with too many questions, body still tingling in the afterglow. He’s watching Minho, feels this tightness in his chest, worry. “Can I talk to you about it… since I don’t remember…?”

The older teen just looks at him, expression irritated. It fades a second later and he just shakes his head. “I guess.” _Because I messed up and broke that rule with you._ He moves back over to where his own pillow and blanket lay forgotten, thinks that Thomas might actually go to sleep now.

Except it’s Thomas and he’s got a million other questions and statements to make.

“Do you need… help?”

It’s quiet and for a brief second Minho is confused. He wants to smile when he realizes what Thomas was getting at, pushes the excited thoughts away. “No, we need to sleep. It’s way too late.”

“You sure?”

“Another time.”

“Okay.”


End file.
